


Remember

by RosellaC



Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Inappropriate Office Behavior, Masturbation, Mild Kink, Missing Scene, Office Sex, Shameless Smut, Unsafe Sex, Voyeurism, like seriously people the door is wide open
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 21:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8683411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosellaC/pseuds/RosellaC
Summary: What did Cyril and Pam really get up to in his office when Archer was captured by pirates? The world may never know, and they certainly don't. But here's what I think might have happened...





	

**Author's Note:**

> OK, guys. This may very well be the sexiest thing I've ever written, seriously. The "Explicit" rating is not a joke, and smut abounds. You have been warned. If you can't take the heat, stay out of the kitchen. 
> 
> Set during Season 3 (Heart of Archness, Part 2 and 3); you can consider this a prequel to my other fics, since a couple of them reference this incident. Since this is a missing scene/scenes from the show, there's some actual show dialogue woven through here. If you recognize it, it ain't mine.

_Just find the money, Cyril!_

Of all the reasons he hates Malory, this one’s rapidly vaulting its way to the top of the list. She doesn’t care that he worked his ass off on the ISIS annual budget, which, all modesty aside, was a masterpiece of accounting; now that her precious idiot baby boy’s gone and got himself captured by pirates, she’s ordered Cyril to find the money to rescue him. Which wouldn’t be so bad, really, if she hadn’t dispatched Ray and Lana with her black titanium credit card, which they’re apparently using as an excuse to take an ISIS-paid vacation to the South Pacific. _Vacation. Oh, right. Just like that thing I cancelled, so I could finish the aforementioned budget, which is now utterly wasted._

In his fury, he remembers Pam’s earlier invitation to happy hour. “Wasted!” she’d said. “Exactly! Let’s go _be_ that!” _Well, I may be stuck here, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have a drink. She can’t deny me that, at least._ He digs around in his bottom desk drawer; his hand brushes his grandfather’s bottle of Glengoolie Blue, and he considers it for a moment before moving on. That one’s for a special occasion, not for a rage-drink. In the back of the drawer, he finds a bottle of bourbon he’d forgotten about. That’ll do fine.

Half the bottle later, his fury hasn’t abated in the slightest. The more he broods and the more he drinks, the madder he gets. _That bitch takes me completely for granted. She thinks I can just find money anywhere, like it grows on goddamn trees._ A radical idea starts to grow in his mind, and he knows it’s a bad one as soon as he has it, but right now he doesn’t care. “Just find the money, Cyril!” he says out loud, high-pitched, mocking Malory’s demand. “You’re an accounting genius, Cyril! That’s right, you bitch. I said it.” His fingers fly over the keyboard as numbers scroll across the screen. “So good luck finding all these Swiss accounts!” As the transfer confirmations pop up one by one, he laughs out loud, satisfaction and hysteria and wrath all rolled into one. 

“What’cha doin’?” 

“Gah!” He jumps, heart pounding. Pam’s standing next to him, slurping on a margarita, and judging by the slur in her voice and the way she’s swaying on her feet, it’s not her first. 

“Hey, Pam,” he says, inwardly cringing at just how guilty he sounds. His mind races: he can’t tell her the truth, obviously, so what can he say to get her out of his office? Before he can come up with something, she provides him with an excuse.

“Is that… internet porn?” 

“Uh, yep. Just, um… just jackin’ it.” He makes the universal motion for masturbation, then kicks himself. _That was completely uncalled for, you idiot! She knows what you meant! You didn’t need to illustrate it!_

“Can I watch?” She creeps closer to him, then pauses. “Or is that weird?” 

His eyes go wide. _Shit. Not the reaction I was expecting._ “Um, it’s kinda weird…” 

She’s even closer now, leaning over him, and he can smell her perfume, something warm and faintly floral overlaid with the sharp citrus of her drink. A little smirk blooms on her face. “Is it?” she whispers. 

“Mmmm… yes?” _Wait. That sounded like a question. Why did that sound like a question? It is weird... isn't it?_ He considers for a split second, and turns to look, really look, at her. She's close enough to touch, close enough for him to just lean forward a little bit and bury his face in her admittedly incredible tits. If he wanted to, that is. (He's not entirely sure he doesn't.) 

The more he thinks about it, the more it starts to sound like a perfectly reasonable, and in fact, desirable idea. She's clearly ready to go for it, and he's long since reached the stage of drunk where, as he's heard Archer put it, he has entirely ceased to give a fuck. _I'm sitting here in my office at midnight, well on my way to shitfaced, moving all the company's money into Swiss bank accounts because my boss is a raging harpy. I'm already going to be fucked in the morning. Why not get off now, while I’ve got the chance?_

"You know what? Fine.” His heart racing for an entirely different reason now, he stares at her. “You want a show, I'll give you a show." She moves closer yet, and some long-hidden, beaten-down part of him suddenly surfaces. He never had the nerve to try this with Lana, knowing she'd have laughed herself sick at his presumption, but everything else about this night is so far beyond his usual comfort zone in every way, he has no inhibitions left and nothing to lose.

"Stop." His hand shoots out, gripping her shoulder harder than strictly necessary, and she sucks in a breath at the unexpected contact. "You're going to sit right _there_ " - he takes his hand from her shoulder and pats his desk - "and you're not going to move, and you're not going to talk."

She perches on the edge of his desk where he’s indicated, legs crossed demurely at the ankle, but he knows there's nothing demure about her, not with the way she's looking at him. Her eyes are avid, almost predatory, and he decides that if he's actually going to do this, he's going to make it good. It's getting uncomfortably warm in his office, so he shrugs out of his sweater vest and pulls off his already-loosened tie, folding them neatly and setting them on the other side of his desk. Once the vest is off, he never breaks eye contact with her, holding her gaze to make sure she knows he’s deliberately taking it slow to tease her. 

He lets his lips quirk upward, just a little, as he reaches for the next button of his shirt, and he’s rewarded as her breath quickens and her eyes widen. He's never done anything like this before, but if her initial reaction's anything to go by, he's definitely going to be trying it again. It's been longer than he wants to admit since he's been with anyone but himself, and her obvious arousal is all the inspiration he needs right now. By the time he has his shirt fully unbuttoned, he can practically see her trembling; when he finally undoes his belt and zipper, she makes a whimpering, needy sound that might be funny if it didn’t go straight to his cock. It’s intoxicating, this power he has over her right now, and the realization hits him like a thunderbolt. This _is what I’ve been chasing all along._ This _is why no one’s ever been quite enough, not even Lana. She’d never in a thousand years have let me take control like this…_

He spreads his opened fly, exposing his underwear, and he keeps his eyes locked with hers as he slowly massages the impressive bulge that he’s revealed. He's grinning wickedly at her now, enjoying her reactions almost as much as he's enjoying his own touch. When he finally pulls his cock out, she can't keep herself from talking any longer. "Holy _shit_ snacks, that's..."

He doesn't let her finish that thought. "Remember what I said? If you want to watch, you have to be quiet." She takes a shuddering breath, nods, and gets herself back under control as he starts to touch himself in earnest. He wraps both hands around his shaft, showing her just how big it is. His hands aren’t small, but both of them still can’t cover the whole thing. She whimpers again as he eases one hand down to cup his balls, displaying himself to her. Her eyes are glazed, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed; he's never been particularly attracted to her before, never thought of her as anything other than an annoying coworker, but something about the way she looks right now is really doing it for him. Driving her crazy is driving him crazy, and he knows he's not going to last long like this. 

He lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, but he's not so far gone he can't hear the surreptitious rustle of her skirt that tells him she's breaking the rules again. "Do that again and I'll stop," he warns her mildly, even though he knows full well he couldn't stop now for anything in the world. He just likes knowing that she wants him so badly right now that she'll do anything he tells her to do. Opening his eyes, he catches her smoothing her skirt back down, and he chuckles at the guilty look on her face. "I can still hear with my eyes closed, you know." 

He'll have to keep them open now, though, since obviously she can't be trusted to behave herself otherwise. She's fidgeting on his desk and biting her lip, restless with need, and she's starting to look desperate. He's starting to feel desperate. He moves faster, not bothering to hold back the moans that seemingly come out of nowhere, and as he gets closer and closer to his peak, he can see that every little sound he makes is tearing her apart. He can hear her ragged breathing, see how her knuckles are white from clutching at the edge of his desk because she thinks he’ll stop if she tries to touch herself again. He abandons himself to sensation, and just a few more strokes bring him over the edge; he comes gasping, crying out his pleasure as he spills all over his own belly and chest. 

Spent and reeling, he collapses back into his desk chair for a few seconds before reaching for a tissue to clean himself up. When he meets her eyes again, they're wide and wondering, their usual grey turned thundercloud dark with her excitement. "Jesus," she breathes. "That was so fuckin' _hot!_ Never thought you'd actually let me watch..."

She's still sitting on his desk, unwilling or unable to move, and he doesn't take his eyes off hers as he reaches out to run a hand up her leg. She squeaks and shivers, but she doesn't stop him as he traces a slow line with his fingertips all the way to her upper thigh. He stops there, mainly because he can't reach any further without one of them moving, and gives her a slow, lazy smile. 

"I think you deserve a reward for being so patient. What do you think?" 

"Oh, God. Please. _Anything._ Just _touch_ me. Fuck." She lets her legs fall apart, leans back on the desk, and his blood heats all over again. She's the perfect embodiment of every office-sex fantasy, abandoned and wanton and ready for the taking. He’s completely forgotten that there might be anyone else in the office, completely forgotten anything but how turned on he is. Scooting his chair closer, he finally trails his hand up to where she wants it.

“My God, woman! You’re soaked!” That power surges through him again as he finds the unmistakable evidence of her desire. _I did that to her. Me! She’s wet like this all because of me..._ He can’t help but feel proud of himself, and she’s moaning now, moving her hips in a futile attempt to bring him deeper. For a second, he considers taking her right there, but he’s having too much fun being the boss for once. He withdraws his hand, never breaking eye contact as he brings it to his lips, and the look of incredulous lust on her face as he sucks her arousal off his fingers is the sexiest thing he’s seen all night. 

“Please,” she whines. “ _Please_ don’t stop. I need…” 

He pours another drink for himself and hands her the bottle, laughing. “Over there.” He gestures to the sofa on the other side of his office. “I don’t want you on my desk for this. I have a feeling it’s going to be… messy.” 

***

A shrill whistle wakes him and he jerks upright, knocking over the empty bourbon bottle. “Oh! Oh, my God!”

He’s at his desk, head spinning, and Malory’s in the doorway, glaring in disapproval. “And why the hell are _you_ still here?” 

“Um, I, this is, uh, what was I doing?” He’s not just stalling her. The night’s a blur, and he genuinely can’t remember why he’s sitting here with the beginnings of a hangover that promises to become vicious in short order. 

“Whatever it was, you better pray it had about three coats of Scotch-Gard.” Malory jerks a thumb toward the back of his office, her lip curled in disgust, and his heart begins to sink as a few memories begin to trickle in. 

“And that it wasn’t…” He risks a look in the direction of the sofa, and his fear comes true; she’s passed out, snoring, and he can’t remember exactly what they did that led to her ending up there, but since she’s stark naked, he can make a pretty good guess. “ _Pam._ ” 

Malory scoffs and stalks away, and Cyril groans. He’s got a feeling this isn’t going to end well. 

***

Morning comes and he’s still at his desk. Last night’s incipient hangover is in full effect now, and his head is somehow pounding and spinning at the same time. He’s stripped to the waist to try and alleviate the booze sweats, and the ice pack he’s fished out of his bottom drawer isn’t doing much to help the headache. The other thing that isn’t helping the headache is Malory. Within five minutes of getting to the office, she’d screeched at him to find some more money to pay for whatever goat rodeo Archer’s rescue has ended up turning into, and now he’s sitting at his computer, staring blankly at a screen full of zeroes. 

“Wait a minute, that can’t be right,” he mutters to himself. “I remember being really mad, and really drunk, and deciding to do some online… Banking!” He gasps in horror. “Oh, my God! I must have embezz…” Belatedly, he realizes Pam’s still in his office, and he corrects himself as he looks up at her. “…arrassed myself last night, huh?” He laughs nervously; she glares at him, and he can see from across the room that her hangover undoubtedly rivals his own. 

"Don't talk like black people," she grumbles as she pulls her clothes back on. "And how should I know? I'm still ripped!" 

_Wait,_ he thinks. _She doesn't remember last night either?_ "Oh, so you don’t, um, happen to remember me saying anything about passwords to, say, Swiss bank accounts?" 

"I don't even remember who peed on your sofa!" she cackles. "Although... if I was a gamblin' man..." 

Malory saves him from coming up with a response to that. She appears in his doorway again and demands to know what ISIS has in the way of cash reserves, and he manages to stall her by telling her he’ll run the numbers, but he knows it’s not going to work for long. She’s too worked up imagining what kind of torture Archer’s enduring; whatever it is, Cyril thinks he undoubtedly deserves it. He’s in no mood to be charitable today. 

He slides his glasses down, pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs. There's nothing else for it; he's going to have to enlist Pam’s help. This is _not_ shaping up to be a good day. 

***

"You're shittin' me." She shakes her head at him. "You got wasted, stole the company's entire bank account, and now ya want _me_ to help get it back?"

"I didn't _steal_ it," he protests. "I just... moved it somewhere else. I know where it _is,_ I just can't remember the password to get in so I can move it back." She just looks at him, narrow-eyed; she knows that's not all he did last night, either, although she’s still not sure what exactly he _did_ do. 

She can't say no to his request for help, though. There's just something about him she's always found oddly appealing, even when he's desperately trying to dig himself out of a hole he created all on his own. And maybe if she helps him out with this, whatever happened between them last night might have a chance of happening again. Or at least maybe she’ll remember it.

“Fine.” She sighs. “What d’ya need me to do?” 

“Just… try to remember. Did I say anything to you last night about the money? Mention the password? Anything?”

“I told ya, I don’t even remember why I’m in here in the first place!”

“Well, try!” he wails. 

“I can’t _remember!_ There’s a reason they call it blackout drunk.” Her head’s still pounding, and she’s really beginning to question whatever possessed her to say she’d help him with this. _Is the off chance of getting laid really worth putting up with one of his panic attacks?_ She considers for a moment, and then decides. _Yes. Yes, it is._

He’s frantically shuffling through the papers on his desk now. “If I don’t remember that password, I can’t un-embezzle that money, and then I’m _screwed,_ because I don’t have…” 

She cuts him off. “Isn’t there a way to just reset the damn password? Every other website in the world lets ya set up a new one if ya forget.” 

“You’re right! Oh, my God!” His face brightens; he types a few words quickly, but as he scans the computer screen, he slumps in his chair. “No, apparently not this one. _Shit._ ” He runs his hands through his already-disheveled hair, and sighs, handing her a stack of papers. “Okay. Look through these for me and tell me if you see anything that looks like it could be a password. I’ll keep trying on here.” 

“Cyril!” He jumps as Malory materializes in his doorway again. Not for the first time, Pam wonders if she’s had special training to walk silently, or if it’s just that she’s so goddamn skinny. 

“Hey, Ms. Archer,” he says, sounding guilty as hell. 

“Three million in cash?”

“That, uh, should not be a problem?” His voice rises, making the statement into a question, and Pam groans internally. _He is gonna get himself busted for sure, and then I’m gonna be an accessory to embezzlement…_

Malory glares at him. “I know it shouldn’t be. And it better not be.”

“Why would it be? It’s not. I just need to move a little money around.”

“So move it. Today, please!” Malory disappears again, and Cyril shoots a panicked glance at Pam. 

“Keep looking. Maybe I wrote it down!” He's muttering to himself now, trying random passwords one after another in the hopes one of them will work, and he's getting increasingly distressed. 

She catches Archer’s name, and her eyebrows rise as she realizes the passwords he’s trying are things like _archersucks_ and _killarcherdie._ “Um…”

“Just trying all my usual passwords,” he says, like it’s totally normal to use coworker-murder fantasies to log into online banking sites. 

She rolls her eyes at him. “Hey. Way to not give him the power.”

“Thank you!” He looks genuinely pleased, even though she hadn’t meant it as a compliment, and she sighs. Apparently he has a wide variety of those fantasies to run through, because he keeps going. After a few more variations, none of which work, she finally gets frustrated enough to do something. 

She tosses aside the stack of papers she’s working on; they’re going to be here forever if he keeps this up. _Time for Plan B._ "No! What’re ya gonna type random words in there the rest of your life?"

“All five minutes of it! At which point Ms. Archer will probably walk in here and dissolve me in a drum of acid, unless you have a better idea.”

Pam grins. She may have fought her way through college, but she remembers a few things from her psychology classes, and this is one of them. "State-dependent memory!" she announces triumphantly. 

He's not slow to pick up on her idea, but he's not fully on board with it, either. "So, your plan is for us to get as blackout, knee-walking, shitfaced drunk as we were last night, in the hopes that we remember the password." His sarcasm is nearly palpable, and her only response is to start chugging the bourbon, right from the bottle. She can tell the exact moment he realizes he doesn't have any better options; his shoulders slump, he sighs, and he reaches out for the bottle. "Well, don't hog it all!" She holds up a finger, warning him off, until he snaps her name, and she finally hands it over. _Here goes nothing,_ she thinks.

***

A couple of hours later, they've gone through at least three bottles plus every piece of paper in his office, and he's tried every password and combination of passwords he's ever used for anything. It's all in vain. He drops his head to the desk with a heartfelt sigh of despair, and she can't help feeling sorry for him, even though this whole mess is his own fault. He’s just so… _cute_ when he’s in trouble, somehow. 

She comes around to his side of the desk and puts an arm around his shoulders, trying to comfort him. "It's gonna be OK. We'll figure it out. Why don't we take a break for a bit before ya drive yourself crazy?" 

"I'm already there," he mumbles into the desk. "And there's no point taking a break, when Ms. Archer's out there just waiting to murder me if I don't get that money back." 

"Have another drink," she says. "If you're still worryin' about it, you’re obviously not as trashed as ya were last night." He lifts his head from the desk, apparently deciding her drunk logic makes sense, and accepts the bottle she passes to him. When he's done, she gently smooths his ruffled hair away from his forehead, and before she can think too hard about it, she leans in and brushes a quick kiss across his temple. 

"What was that for?" 

He doesn't sound offended, just curious, so she shrugs. "Looked like ya needed it. And after what we did last night, I figured ya wouldn't mind too much." 

She can feel his shoulders tense under her arm. "Do you... remember what we did? Because I don't, really." 

"No, I don't," she admits. "I know it was hot, though." 

"How do you know it was hot if you don't know what it was?"

"Well, it's like when you have a really good, sexy dream," she says matter-of-factly. "Y’know, wakin’ up all sticky, so you know it was a good time, but the dream itself is long gone." 

He tilts his head, thoughtfully. "Okay. In a weird and kind of gross way, that makes perfect sense. So you think we really did have sex?" 

"I woke up naked, so I'm gonna assume we did _somethin',_ " she laughs. "I kinda remember comin' in here and askin' what you were up to, but after that it's kinda blurry." 

"And I remember realizing something, something I didn't know about myself before, but now I have no idea what it was." He groans and drops his head back to the desk. "Figures. Classic Cyril. Always the screw-up." 

"Hey," she says, tightening her arm around him. "Don't talk like that. This isn't over yet. I'm gonna help ya fix it, I promise. There's gotta be a way." 

"Really?" He turns to look at her, and she nods, smiling. His face is inches from hers, so it's easy to see the moment the despair in his eyes turns into hope, and then into something else, half a second before he leans forward and kisses her. 

_Oh._

She's sure now that whatever they did last night, it couldn't possibly have involved kissing, because there's no way she could have forgotten this. He’s unexpectedly wonderful at it, and she knows perfectly well he’d never be doing this if it weren’t for the bourbon, but right now she couldn't care less. She finds herself sighing into his mouth as he slides a hand up the back of her neck to weave his fingers into her hair, and he must like the sounds she's making because he rewards her with a satisfied hum of his own. 

Somehow, without breaking their kiss, she manages to maneuver herself around so she's half-sitting, half-leaning against his desk in front of him. They fit much better together this way, and now she can press herself up against his chest; he wraps his other arm around her back, pulling her even closer and nudging his knee between her thighs. Before long, she's practically on his lap, forgetting that the door's wide open, forgetting everything but the feel of him against her. He never bothered to tuck his shirt in when he got dressed again, so she takes the opportunity to slip her hands under it and touch him. He moans, and then his hands are under her sweater, too. They’re so warm, moving over her body so perfectly, she has to, just _has_ to, take her sweater off to give him more room to work. It’s not good enough, though; she needs to feel his skin on hers. 

She tugs urgently at his sweater vest, and he lifts his arms to let her pull it off. It still holds the heat of his body, and before she realizes what she's doing, she rubs her cheek against it, breathing in his scent and relishing the softness of the cashmere. He quirks an eyebrow at her and she drops it, blushing. Kissing him again is the only way to recover from her momentary embarrassment, and it gives her the chance to unbutton his shirt, so she counts it as a win-win. As she eases his shirt off, skimming her hands from his chest up to his shoulders, down his arms and back again, his own hands are busy removing her bra. The second it’s off, he crushes her to his chest, and she can’t keep a whimper of pure need from escaping once she feels his skin against her bare breasts at last. He starts to laugh, breaking their kiss, but he doesn’t let her go. 

“What in the hell’s so funny?” 

“I distinctly remember you making that exact same noise last night,” he says, grinning at her, “but I can’t remember what I did then to make you make it.” 

She has to laugh at that. “Well, seems like ya made a pretty good start on figurin’ it out, so for the love of God, don’t _stop!_ ” Rolling her hips against his, she kisses him again, but he pulls away. 

“I think I’m starting to remember now,” he says, his voice low and amused. “I think you like it when I tease you. I think _I_ like it when I tease you.” 

“No, please,” she gasps. “I’m so ready. Please. I need it.” 

“You need patience, is what you need.” He laughs again. “And how can you be ready? I haven’t even touched you yet.” 

“You’ve been touching me all _day,_ ” she whines, maybe exaggerating just a little.

“Oh, but I haven’t touched you _here_ yet.” He traces a finger from the center of her back around her ribs, under and between her breasts, over to gently circle a nipple, and she sighs. “Or here…” He gives the same treatment to the other nipple, and she shudders. “And definitely not down here.” He draws his finger back down her belly, so slowly, meandering back and forth as she squirms under his touch until he stops at the waistband of her skirt. “Hmm. This seems to be in the way. What should I do with it?” 

“Take it off. _Please._ ” 

“Are you sure? Because I could probably just do this.” His other hand slides up her leg and under her skirt, and she can’t stop herself from keening as he finally reaches her panties. “There it is.” He smiles at her in triumph. “ _There’s_ the noise I was looking for. And I think you’re right, this all has to come off. It seems to have gotten wet, somehow.” 

She has just enough presence of mind left to hoist herself fully onto his desk, lifting her hips so he can slip the rest of her clothes off. When she’s fully bared to him, he stands there for a minute, just looking at her; she can’t quite read the expression on his face, drunk as she is with liquor and desire.

“I remember you looking like this, last night,” he says, almost to himself. “Spread out right here, so desperate for me to touch you.” He shakes his head. “Do you know, no one’s ever looked at me like that before? Begged me for it like you did? That’s what I realized. _That’s_ what I’ve been missing - someone who’ll let me take control. Let _me_ call the shots once in a while.”

“I’ll let ya call anything ya want if it means you’ll get over here and _fuck_ me,” she growls. 

He moves closer to her, smiling again, his eyes dark with promise. He lets his pants and underwear fall to the floor; as he steps out of them, he bends to kiss the soft skin of her inner thigh, and he works his way up until he’s insinuated himself snugly between her legs. She wraps them around his waist, trying to pull him into her, but his hand’s in the way. He’s holding the tip of his cock poised right at her entrance, and she practically sobs when his thumb reaches up to rub circles around her clit. He leans down, just barely brushing his chest against hers. “Ask me nicely,” he whispers in her ear. “Tell me what you need.”

“ _Please,_ Cyril,” she begs. “Please fuck me. I need it. I need _you._ ” With every word, he pushes into her a little farther, and her eyes flutter shut. “Oh, my God.”

“Is that better?” Even with her eyes closed, she can tell he’s still smiling. His voice is silky smooth, rich like coffee and cream, dark as chocolate.

“Couple things.” She takes a deep breath. “First, you’re gonna have to give me a second here. Kinda feels like I just lost my virginity. Again. And second, we definitely didn’t do _this_ last night. I’d have remembered it.” His laugh vibrates through her, and she sighs with satisfaction as he begins to move slowly within her. “I never knew,” she murmurs. “Never guessed you’d be so good at this.”

“I never knew _you’d_ be so good. Every little touch and word makes you shiver. You’re so… open, so responsive, so aroused. You want me so badly. It’s _beautiful._ ” He starts to move a little faster, touching her again, and she pleads with him, urging him on. She’s been worked up for so long that it doesn’t take much more before she comes hard, arching up off the desk with the force of her spasms. He holds her through it, letting her clutch at his back, swallowing her cries with another kiss. When she’s finished, she lies back, panting. “Beautiful,” he breathes again. “ _God._ ” 

“Am I dead? I think I might be dead. Or paralyzed. I can’t feel my legs.” She’s trying to catch her breath, still, when he starts to move again. 

“I can assure you that you’re neither of those things,” he laughs. “What you are is…” He pauses to breathe deep, his own orgasm starting to build. “Erotic. Sensual. Unexpected.” His face is tense, now, his teeth gritted as he tries to hold on to his control. “Unforgettable,” he gasps. 

“Don’t hold back,” she urges, smiling wickedly up at him. “Please. Come for me.” 

She gets her wish; apparently her words are all he needs to bring him over the edge, and he moans. He takes her by the hips, thrusting deeply one last time, as his face contorts with what looks like pain and his fingers dig in hard enough to bruise. She can feel his heat pulsing into her, see the fine sheen of sweat covering his body, and she’d never in a million years have guessed she’d ever think this, but right now Cyril Figgis, ISIS accountant, is the sexiest man alive. 

He braces himself on the desk, chest heaving, as he recovers. “Oh, my God. That was… _intense._ ” As soon as he can breathe normally enough, he leans down to capture her lips again. 

She's thoroughly sated, feeling warm and contented all over like a cat in the sun. She runs a lazy hand along his cheek as they kiss, enjoying the slight rasp of stubble, and it suddenly hits her that she hasn't been home or had more than a couple of hours of sleep in almost two days. Whether it's the bourbon, the post-orgasm haze, or everything else, she needs a nap. Now. 

She breaks away from him for a second. "Not that I'm not havin' fun here, but I think I'm gonna pass out now." She rolls onto her belly, still atop his desk, and bumps into the last bottle of bourbon; somehow, magically, there's still a little bit left. She hands it over to him, and he takes a grateful swig, leaving the last for her. As soon as she finishes it off, she can't keep herself awake anymore, and her last conscious thought is that she's going to have to help Cyril out of his messes more often if this is the kind of reward she's going to get. 

***

Cyril looks at Pam, sprawled on his desk, her sleeping face looking remarkably innocent considering what they just did. He pulls his pants back on, decides not to bother with his shirt (and definitely not his sweater vest, since Pam's apparently commandeered it), and collapses into his desk chair, feeling drained. It's been a crazy, roller-coaster ride of a day, and he needs some sleep as badly as she does, so he drapes an arm across her bare back and rests his head on her shoulder. She makes a surprisingly comfortable pillow.

_Someday,_ he thinks, _I'll get her to tell me what that tattoo's all about. But not today._

That's where Malory and Cheryl find them, hours later, surrounded by a tornado of paperwork, clothes, and empty bottles. They don't bother to hide their disgust, but Cyril doesn't care this time. Even though it's probably never going to happen again, he can't find it in himself to regret it, not when it was so spectacularly good. It's his little secret, now, the details already fading but the tiny, steady flame of knowledge still burning in his heart. Now that he knows what it is he really wants, he won't forget it again; he'll find it somewhere, someday. But first, he still has to remember that goddamn password.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. :-)


End file.
